The private screening room at Owlwood Estate was a sanctuary insulated from the frantic energy of Los Angeles.
There were no ringing telephones, no frantic studio executives, and no flashbulbs.
There was only the low, comforting sound of the 35mm projector in the back booth and the silver beam of light cutting through painting onto the wall.
It was their sixth night in a row doing this.
For the past week, Lynda Carter had practically moved into the estate.
There hadn't been a grand declaration of a relationship, more of a quiet, seamless merging of their schedules.
She had stayed after the Oscars, exhausted from the media circus, and simply never packed her overnight bag.
Their days were spent working, Duke in the Paramount boardrooms, and Lynda attending acting classes and wardrobe fittings, but their spare time belonged here.
They had fallen into a comfortable rhythm. They ate takeout on the plush velvet sofas, showered the day's stress away, and then retreated to show each other films.
Tonight, it was Lynda's turn to choose.
On the screen, Rita Hayworth was in the middle of her performance in Gilda (1946). Hayworth was currently performing "Put the Blame on Mame."
Duke sat back, a plate of half-eaten Fish & Chip resting on the low table in front of him.
He was dressed in a simple grey t-shirt and shorts, his bad leg stretched out over a cushioned pilllow. Lynda was curled up next to him, her head resting naturally against his chest, her legs tucked under her.
"She's incredible, isn't she?" Lynda murmured, her eyes fixed on the screen as Hayworth executed the iconic hair flip.
"She was great," Duke agreed, "Columbia Pictures built their entire decade around her."
Lynda tilted her head, looking up at him. "You always look how the studio uses the star in every movie."
Duke smiled softly, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her a fraction closer. "Occupational problem, I suppose. When you spend your days looking at budgets and distribution slates, it's hard to turn off the producer's brain."
"Why did you?" she asked softly. "You've never really told me. How does a kid from Texas ended up in Paramount?"
Duke looked back at the screen, the flickering light playing across his features.
"I didn't have much of a family growing up," Duke began, "State orphanage mostly, when I was twelve, I got a job sweeping floors at the Majestic Theater downtown."
Duke continued, pulling memories from the previous owner of the body. "I'd come in after school, clean up and in exchange, the manager let me stand in the back and watch the movies for free."
He smiled, "The first one I ever saw all the way through was When Worlds Collide. A Paramount movie, ironically enough. It's about watching a man create a rocket to escape a dying planet. And something just... clicked."
He turned to look at Lynda, "I wanted to do movies full time."
Lynda's expression softened. She reached up, her hand caressing his jaw. "So you didn't come to Hollywood to get rich."
"I came to Hollywood cause i love movies, which call me delusional, but i think was the reason most people made the trip here," Duke said slowly.
That was the reason for the original body owner, but his? In his previous life, he was just a guy from Dallas who loved movies but became a CS graduate and was doing his Masters in Petroleum Engineering before he woke up in this time period.
In his past life, he never pursued movies as a whole since he never went fully into the industry, he would go to festivals, watch experimental films but never tried to fully make the jump.
Lynda leaned in and kissed him.
"You're doing a good job, Duke," she whispered against him.
They settled back into the cushions, the warmth of their bodies pressed together.
___
Duke parked on the driveway, killed the engine, and stepped out. The scent of eucalyptus and jasmine hung in the air. It feel peaceful.
Bruce was waiting for him and ushered him to the backyard. He was dressed in loose-fitting black trousers and a simple white t-shirt.
"Duke," Bruce said, offering a respectful nod.
"Bruce. Thank you for having me," Duke replied.
"Sit," Bruce instructed, gesturing to a low wooden table set with a cast-iron teapot and two small, handle-less cups.
Duke took a seat on the floor cushion, carefully arranging his right leg so as not to put unnecessary pressure on the joint. As Bruce poured the tea, Duke took a moment to observe him.
Bruce had a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his fingers as he set the teapot down. Through the sliding door leading to the kitchen, Duke caught a brief glimpse of a small cluster of amber prescription bottles lined up on the counter.
"Drink," Bruce said. "Before we train, we must calm the mind. You have brought the noise of your studio with you."
Duke chuckled softly, taking a sip of the hot tea while he joked. "I'm a hard mind to turn off."
"It must be turned off," Bruce said simply. "If your mind is full of business, how can we pour martial arts into it?"
They sat in silence for a long time. Slowly, Duke felt the tension bleeding out of his shoulder.
Bruce set his cup down and stood up. "Walk for me."
Duke frowned, slightly confused. "Walk?"
"Just walk across the deck at a normal pace."
Duke pushed himself up and walked from one end of the deck to the other, then turned and walked back. He walked almost evenly, but the hitch in his right leg was impossible to hide entirely.
"Your foundation is compromised," Bruce said bluntly.
"I know," Duke said, returning to his spot. "I told you at the party. I can't do high kicks. I can't bounce on the balls of my feet like a boxer. I'm doing this more to help the injury and keep myself active."
"Good," Bruce said, a spark of genuine approval in his eyes. "You know your goal at least."
Bruce stepped onto the center of the deck and assumed a stance. His feet were shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent and turned inward. His elbows were tucked tight against his ribs, his hands raised to the center of his chest, fingers relaxed but ready.
"This is Yee Gee Kim Yeung Ma," Bruce explained, "The fundamental stance of Wing Chun. It requires only that you root yourself to the ground."
He gestured for Duke to stand and mirror him. Duke complied, adjusting his feet, feeling the strange, slightly uncomfortable tension of turning his knees inward.
Surprisingly, the stance took the pressure entirely off his bad knee, distributing his weight evenly through his thighs and hips.
"In a fight," Bruce said, stepping close to Duke, "everyone wants to circle. Wing Chun cares only about the Center Line. The shortest distance between two points."
Bruce suddenly shot a rapid, open-handed strike toward Duke's face. Duke flinched, instinctively throwing his left arm to block it.
Before Duke's arm could even connect, Bruce's hand had already retreated. But he did lightly tap his sternum with his other fist.
Bruce reset his stance. "Because your leg is injured, you cannot run. Therefore, you must make them come to you. You command the center, and when they try to enter it, you break their structure."
Duke stood there, his arms still raised, as the philosophy washed over him.
"Do not react to the noise," Bruce instructed, moving his hands slowly in a rhythmic, circular trapping motion. "Feel the pressure. When they push, you roll. When they pull, you strike. You use their own energy against them, remaining perfectly balanced."
Duke nodded slowly, adjusting his elbows, pulling them tighter to his ribs, protecting his center.
Bruce smiled, "The bad leg is not a weakness, Duke. Boundaries exist for us to work around them."
They spent the next two hours on the deck, moving slowly. Bruce introduced him to the basic hand structures. There was no sweating, no sparring. Just slow movements
When Duke finally drove back down the canyon toward the Paramount lot, his leg ached slightly, but his mind feel clearer.
___
The boardroom of the Motion Picture Association of America in Los Angeles was a cathedral of dark wood, and heavy drapes.
Duke Hauser sat at the far end of the long mahogany table filled with high level executives of the big studios, nursing a glass of sparkling water, a form of water that he didn't particularly like.
He was the youngest man in the room by two decades, to his left, Robert Evans leaned back, looking like he'd just stepped off a yacht and to Duke's right sat Frank Yablans, while at the head of the table sat Jack Valenti, the MPAA's president and former LBJ confidant, flanked by the most powerful man on the industry, Lew Wasserman.
But today, there was a guest.
Sitting next to Valenti was a silver-haired man from the State Department, Marshall Green, Assistant Secretary of State for East Asian and Pacific.
If the room was still buzzing about Duke's public dismissal of Charlie Chaplin at the Oscars, they didn't let it show.
In this place, morality was a secondary concern, power was the only currency that mattered.
Duke had delivered The Godfather, The French Connection and Dirty Harry. He had taken Paramount, a studio that had been circling the drain, and turned it into a top three studios. He had earned his seat.
"Alright, let's keep this moving. We have reservations at Perino's," Jack Valenti said, he tapped a folder on the table. "Our friend here from the State Department has a formal request. The Nixon administration is looking to shore up our presence in Southeast Asia. They're pushing for a cultural exchange delegation to Seoul, South Korea."
A collective groan rippled around the table.
"God, South Korea?" Evans muttered, rubbing his temples. "What's the market over there? Three thousand dollars and a goat? Nobody has time to fly fifteen hours to shake hands with a dictator in a bunker."
Marshall Green cleared his throat, his voice dry and professional. "Gentlemen, the White House views the Korean peninsula as a vital defensive wall. President Park Chung-hee is aggressively modernizing. They want American glamour. They want the 'Hollywood Dream' to keep their people looking toward the West. It's a matter of national interest."
"It's a matter of a headache," Lew Wasserman interjected. He adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses, "We do favors for Washington because Washington does favors for us. But I'm not sending my guys to a backwater place. Does anyone want to volunteer to be the ambassador out of goodwill?"
Everyone suddenly became very interested in their gold watches and the mahogany table.
To almost all of america, South Korea in 1972 was a geopolitical backwater, a nation of farmers and soldiers, with an economy that hadn't yet found its feet. It held zero value for a traditional theatrical model based on ticket sales in New York or Paris.
Duke leaned forward, his hands still on the table.
"I'll go," Duke said.
The room went quiet. Eleven pairs of eyes snapped toward the young head of Paramount.
Bob Evans lowered his sunglasses, peering over the rims with a look of genuine confusion while discretly shaking his head. "Duke... we don't have time to go play in a rice paddy."
"It's good optics for the studio," Duke said smoothly, "Paramount just swept the Oscars. It looks good for the winning team to step up and do the heavy lifting for the State Department. Besides, I could use the flight time and a few days in Seoul sounds like a fine change of pace."
Wasserman studied Duke for a long beat. He was far too old to believe Duke was doing this out of the goodness of his heart, but he was also a pragmatist. A volunteer was better than a draftee.
"You understand the drill, Hauser?" Valenti asked, a small smile playing on his lips. "You'll be meeting with the Ministry of Culture, touring their broadcasting facilities, and standing for a lot of photos."
"I have a great smile, Jack," Duke replied dryly.
"Fine. Marshall you have your man," Wasserman said, closing the folder. "Paramount will represent the MPAA in Seoul. Now, can we please get to the domestic labor negotiations?"
Duke leaned back, his expression neutral, but his mind was already far away.
The men in this room were brilliant tacticians of the present moment but they were blind to the shift coming.
They looked at South Korea and saw a war-torn agrarian state. Duke knew about the "Miracle on the Han River." A nation that was about to undergo the most explosive industrial and technological boom in human history.
The State Department was arranging tours of the nascent Korean broadcasting networks KBS and TBC.
The South Korean government was desperate for high-quality Western content to fill their expanding airwaves as television ownership began to climb among a nascent middle class.
Duke's plan was simple. To bring his tv shows there.
He knew the Japanese anime market was trying to break in the Korean TV market but there were laws in place that prohibited them.
Duke took a slow sip of his water, listening to the Old Guard bicker about union contracts and theater percentages.